Worth Her Weight
by Marguerite1
Summary: Skinner must account for Mulder's expenses in "Fight the Future."


**WORTH HER WEIGHT**

  
  


Classification: Post-"ep" for the XF movie, "Fight the Future."   
Summary: An account of a rescue, pieced together from credit card receipts. 

*** 

If anyone had ever told me that the position of Assistant Director of the F.B.I. meant that I'd be playing "Bad Cop" for the rest of my career, I'd have run screaming in the other direction, begging to be made a mail room clerk. 

I'm sitting at my desk, looking at a bulging manila folder. Receipts in several languages are pouring out of the sides, across the front is written in magic marker in a very aggressive scrawl: "Fund Requests--Special Agent Fox Mulder." 

It was a stimulating read. 

This bundle of joy was delivered by hand from the bean counters downstairs. My job is to sift through these accounts with Agent Mulder and make a recommendation as to how--or whether--these bills are to be paid. I take off my jacket and hang it neatly over the back of my chair, roll up my sleeves, and start re-reading. It doesn't start off too badly: 

American Airlines ticket to Los Angeles with a stopover in Dallas. How's that for irony? 

One night in a seedy-sounding motel near the airport. 

Cold-weather gear from a men's store in L.A. 

Qantas Airlines ticket to Australia. Evidently he spent the night on the floor of the airport in Sydney, judging from the attached receipts from the airport food services. 

By the time I start reading about chartered planes and snowmobiles, I start to feel uneasy, and it's at this moment that Mulder makes his entrance. 

"Sir? You asked to see me?" 

"Yes I did. Thank you for being so prompt. Please have a seat." I try to make my tone noncommittal, but he eyes me warily as he walks to the chair and lowers himself into it. "How's the back?" 

He seems surprised by the personal question. "Better, thank you." It had peeved him no end when he found out that his medical records included mention of every bruise on his battered spine and buttocks, sustained during what he called "an unfortunate fall." 

I settle the papers on my desk, knocking the edges to try to make the pile more manageable. "I have been requested--strongly--to go over the accounts of your recent Antarctic expedition, Agent Mulder. It seemed only fair that you be present during this process, so that I may ask for your input where necessary." 

His face goes a little pale and I swear that the corner of his mouth is trembling. "Sir, I know I stepped outside of Bureau regulations..." 

"Stepped? Looks to me as if you did a standing broad-jump over the heads of every member of this organization." 

"I did it to save my partner's LIFE." 

He's angry, his hands gripping the leather armrests as if he'd rather have them around my throat. His body language tells me that there is no expense too great for Agent Scully, no deed too outrageous. 

I fold my hands on the desk and look directly into his defiant eyes. "You may not believe this, but I want to help you. Meet me halfway, here; let me know what some of this stuff was about." 

Mulder relaxes by degrees and nods as he moves the chair forward. Despite his caution he makes a tiny hiss of pain and looks at me to see if I've noticed. I don't let on. 

"Mulder, I'm with you as far as Australia. Now it turns weird. Here's the plane you chartered to Antarctica. You went to the Greenpeace station rather than to a U.S. geological survey site?" 

"I had limited time. The Greenpeace station was the first to offer me assistance, so I took them up on it. Lucky for me that the co-ordinates were near Wilkes Land, so there was an air strip at an ice-free coastal site." 

"You put this chartered flight on your Visa card, Agent Mulder." 

"Yeah." He fidgets in his chair. "I left home without American Express." 

"You know that you have to fill out forms for chartering planes, that there's procedure to be followed." 

"I didn't have time for procedures. Scully..." his voice cracks on her name. "Scully didn't have time." 

I refrain from commenting about the dire emergency; the damned oversight committee won't care. "I understand that you flashed your F.B.I. credentials to get the use of a vehicle." 

"They don't have Lariat Rent-A-Snowcat stations." 

After a moment I continue. "Then there was the return flight to Australia, where you were both checked in to St. Vincent's in Melbourne for emergency treatment. There were calls to radiology, virology, pathology, dermatology...urology?" 

Mulder indicates his back. "Bruised kidneys." 

"Oto-rhino-laryngology?" 

"Ear, nose, and throat specialist." 

"I know what it means, Mulder," I growl. "You were in intensive care for three days, and Scully for a week, after which time she spent another week in a regular room under constant nursing supervision as per your request." 

I can tell from the wildness in his eyes that he's reliving every instant of that journey into a frozen hell. From the nature of his injuries, it's a wonder he didn't get killed half a dozen times over. The medical personnel have unequivocally stated that he'd have died of exposure if Scully hadn't dragged him back to their vehicle after the...incident. As it was, he almost lost a few toes. And what happened to Scully is beyond anyone's description. 

"Surely, Sir, the bureau doesn't begrudge us the attempt to keep from dying." 

The sarcasm cuts me deeply. Were it up to me, I'd have taken these two people to every damn specialist in the country. "I'm just looking at the expenses, in the order they were incurred." He gets it. We have to go through these motions. The flicker of understanding in his eyes tells me more than any words ever could. 

Now comes the tricky part. "I have here two Qantas tickets from Melbourne to Los Angeles. First Class." 

Mulder ducks his head. 

"Accommodations for two at the Hyatt Regency." 

His eyelids droop. 

"I'm not even mentioning the room service steak dinner," I inform him dryly. "But I do have a question about the $614.98 bill from the concierge." 

"Agent Scully's clothing was lost in Antarctica. She'd been wearing my things for almost a week, supplemented by some jeans and sweaters donated by nurses at St. Vincent's. Everything was enormous on her, but she never complained...I couldn't stand it any more. I sent the concierge to get her some clothes, and to replace the suit and shoes, and her..." He makes a delicate motion in the air with his hands. 

I'll be damned. Fox Mulder is blushing. 

"Lingerie," I supply for him. 

He nods, his humiliation now complete. 

"Did you get to see your purchases, Agent Mulder?" 

He starts to react, then realizes that I'm joking. For the first time I see his face relax and he actually laughs with me. "Unfortunately, no." 

I nod, trying to conceal the grin that wants to plaster itself all over my face. "Probably for the best, Agent Mulder. She would have had to kill you." 

"Eyes only." He plays back, but there is still a hint of wariness in his tone. "What's the total damage on this one?" 

"Counting the high-end binoculars that mysteriously disappeared, the ones that the Greenpeace folks are 'kindly' requesting that we replace?" I wait for him to settle down in his chair. "We're up to $874,465 and change." 

Mulder is clearly shocked. 

"Over half of that is in medical expenses, and I think I can get Workman's Comp to pick up the tab, or at least reduce the costs." 

"But Agent Scully had resigned from the Bureau at the time of the incident." 

"Resigned?" I look at him with eyes too wide open to be genuine. "Had she resigned, her expenses would not be covered. I have no recollection of any letter of resignation." 

His hand covers his eyes for a moment. 

"After this, though, you two may have to be insured by Lloyd's of London. As for the remainder..." I look over the paper at him; he is stock-still and white as cardboard. "Agent Mulder, would I be correct in surmising that it is Agent Scully who usually deals with the expense reports?" 

He nods and swallows so loudly that I can hear it. 

Poor bastard is just now realizing what the Bureau spends on him. 

"Between the different styles of travel on your return journey and a few other things that the Bureau would call 'questionable,' it looks as if we have about one hundred fifteen thousand dollars in 'unreimbursable' expenses." 

"I have money," Mulder says quickly, his tone carefully neutral. 

I've been peripherally aware of this for years, that there's money tucked under a mattress somewhere in his family. The man wears clothes with an insolent laziness that only comes from privileged ancestry, and his manners are usually impeccable and always completely natural. To the manner born. 

Thinking of him crawling on all fours, alone, through icy tunnels to save his partner makes my chest hurt. Damn the F.B.I., anyway; what does it know about loyalty and compassion? 

"I appreciate what you're saying, Agent Mulder. I hope that it won't be necessary to call upon you for this; I'm going to do everything possible to ensure that it doesn't happen." 

Damn straight it won't. I have a summer home that doesn't get used. One phone call and it's on the market. 

"Thank you for your time." 

He knows that he's being set free, so he unfolds himself from the chair and stands at attention. "I'd like to make a request, Sir." 

I know him so well that he doesn't have to say a word. "Agent Scully will never see a scrap of this paperwork," I assure him. 

His gratitude is silent but heartfelt. 

What he has done violates every regulation in the book, including some that will probably be written and named after him. He operates under his own code of honor, and it's one I can admire. And defend. 

When I rise to shake his hand, it's out of respect. 

*** 

END 

Feedback is welcome at marguerite@swbell.net.   
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